


For whom the bells toll

by Wallissa



Series: Ineffable Week [5]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 1970s, Aziraphale is horny, Crowley is stylish, Developing Relationship, Dirty Thoughts, M/M, Missing Scene, Multi, Mutual Pining, Slow Romance, That's it., fashion - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-10-18 18:47:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20643938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wallissa/pseuds/Wallissa
Summary: Crowley is a terribly stylish snake. Whenever they meet, Aziraphale is impressed by his fashion sense. In the hot summer of 1975, they meet for the first time after Aziraphale gave him the holy water in thee 1960s and the second time since Aziraphale realised that he's in love with him in the 1940s. Thus, he realises that maybe, his interest in Crowley's outfits is less about appreciating his fashion sense. Grapes, patchouli and bell bottoms.Ineffable Week, Friday -wearing each other’s clothes orwearing period appropriate disguises





	For whom the bells toll

**Author's Note:**

> another late one! I'm sorry :')  
It is 3am and I am dizzy w sleepiness. The piece has been written earlier, but I proofread it now so uhhHHHH sorry about any mistakes, I'll go back and correct them tomorrow y,y

In the 1940s, on a night where the air was vibrating with bombs and betrayal, Aziraphale got the creeping suspicion that the feelings he has for Crowley might exceed respect and friendship. It was a bit of a surprise, something that filled him with champagne-sparkles and confusion and caused him to stay inside for the next couple of years. 

It’s been a good while since then and he’s had some time to think, even though that term might be a bit of an overestimation of what he’s been doing. The summer of 1975 has been a warm one thus far and when Aziraphale makes his way through Regent’s Park, the air smells of sun-sweet dried grass.

He’s about to rummage through his bag of grapes for the ducks to have a treat himself when the scent of patchouli tickles his nose. Nowadays, that’s not terribly uncommon, but the scent it’s entangled with makes him slow his steps.

„Early, are we?“

See, Aziraphale has been preparing for this moment for a few years. Since he’s somewhat aware of his feelings now (he doesn’t name them, he mostly tries not to think too hard about them, but he’s _aware_), he has done some research on the matter. It consisted mostly of rereading old favourites, mainly Virginia Woolf, and feeling something that could be called „baffled and embarrassed recognition“. 

Thus prepared, it shouldn’t be hard to simply carry on with how things were beforre. Carry on having conversations with the entity that you’ve already admitted some things to, a few years past, but clumsily, because Woolf was a lovely lady, but not a very good at giving relationship advice, and whom you haven’t been able to forget ever since. Come to think about it, he’s _never_ been particularly good at forgetting Crowley, but if he starts thinking about that now, he might never open his mouth at all. 

So with newfound determination, Aziraphale turns. However, when his mouth opens, it’s not to talk.

For once, it’s _Crowley_. It shouldn’t be any different from all the other times they’ve seen each other, really. He managed just fine last time, in the car, and he’d known back then, too. But it’s different to turn to see him, standing in the warm sunshine. The sight of him alone makes Aziraphale’s heart flutter. Well, maybe it’s always fluttered a bit when Crowley was concerned and he only just noticed.

But that’s just the first problem. The second one is that Crowley is wearing an _outfit_.

Aziraphale himself has shown little interest in changing his style those last few decades, since his suit is still perfectly fashionable and he loves it so very much. But. Crowley.

He’s wearing bell bottoms, high waisted and so tight around - well, _everything_ but the ankles that Aziraphale isn’t sure they should be considered trousers. They’re tights. Crowley is wearing tights and they’re a dark maroon colour and he looks so good Aziraphale feels like he might actually faint. He can see his _hipbones_. 

And the shirt. It’s not any better as far as Aziraphale is concerned. Silk, possibly, with a wide collar and a neckline that is positively scandalous. It’s truly terrible, how the fashion nowadays is perfectly suited to make Crowley look all the more irresistible. 

„Angel?“

„Yes, I’m sorry. You look - _stylish_.“

Crowley sniffs. „You think so? You haven’t seen me with one before, I don’t think, right?“

„One what?“ One belt that perfectly accentuates his trim waist? One shirt that’s so tight it looks like it’s been painted on by a renaissance artist who had to make his frescoes more pious? Aziraphale would very much like a fan to cool himself a little.

„A moustache. I find them fun, actually.“

Oh, yeah. Aziraphale had almost missed that. “It’s very fetching,“ he allows. „Would you like to find a bench?“ Can he even sit?

„Oh, I’m fine. We can walk over to the bridge so you can- you know - „Crowley nods towards the bag of grapes Aziraphale is still holding, a relic from more innocent times where his mind hadn’t been quite this filled with images of Crowley’s thighs. Can he _walk_?

„Yes, of course.“ Aziraphale offers a little smile and regrets that he agreed to see him this soon. 1985 would’ve been just fine and he would’ve had a little more time to come to terms with his thoughts. Maybe the fashion wouldn’t have looked as- well. Seductive. 

Too late now, too late. Now, he has to walk next to Crowley and regret his haste in silence.

For Crowley can walk, as it turns out, and Aziraphale has always enjoyed watching him move. There’s such an unearthly elegance to it. He’s melodic, like a charmed snake, and just as graceful.

But oh, today it’s simply torture. Aziraphale doesn’t think it’s ever been this bad. Not even in the twenties and oh, that dress had been _short._ Aziraphale had spent quite a few years after that meeting in a vague state of confusion, thinking of pearls and glittering sequins and pale shins. It’s not the shins his eyes are drawn to now.

„You’re quiet today.“

They made their way to one of the little bridges that cross the duck-neck part of the Boating Lake. Here, the air is a little cooler, filled with the soft flutter of wings. When Aziraphale’s grip on the paper bag tightens, its rustle attracts the attention of the ducks and they swarm in, a mess of wings and beaks, making the water gurgle and bubble.

To win time, he throws a few grapes. For a second, they glitter like green marbles, then they’re quickly snatched up and devoured by hungry ducks. “Am I? Must be the heat.”

Firstly, it’s phrased as an _assumption_, not a statement. Secondly, he _is_ feeling rather hot. Over the years, he’s gotten good at almost telling the truth.

“Yeah, it’s gotten warmer, hasn’t it?” Crowley leans his forearms on the failing of the little bridge, watching the birds below. Th pose draws the eye to his long legs, the dip of his spine, the curve of his –

Aziraphale scatters another handful of grapes. He’d love to say something, but his brain is filled with impressions, ideas that mute him. Body-warm silk, slippery under his touch, the curve of a hipbone against his thumb. What would that moustache feel like? Aziraphale assumes it would tickle his lips a little. 

“I wanted to speak about last time.”

The comment catches Aziraphale by surprise. He blinks, thrown out of his daydreams about his mouth on a sharp collar bone, patchouli under his tongue. “Yes?”

Crowley’s hands flex, then he entwines his fingers. Aziraphale has always admired those hands. They’re finely boned, long-fingered. 

“It’s convenient that you brought the water. I know it’s not –“ Crowley sniffs. “Well, anyways. That was very –“ He looks at his hands. Fingers, detangled, entangled. He tries again. “Very _you_. I appreciate it, is what I’m trying to say.”

Aziraohale’s heart flutters almost painfully. Sparkling champagne in his veins, making him dizzy with happiness. He’d always been weak for Crowley’s awkward little “thank you”s.

“Oh, that’s fine,” he says, then quickly backtracks because it’s _holy water_. “Well, no. Not fine, definitely not. I still very much disagree, as you know, since the thought that you’re putting yourself in such a dangerous position –“

“Yeah, yeah. Listen. The other thing. About –“ Long fingers, in knots, ripped apart. Fluttering in the river-cool air for a moment. “In the car.”

Aziraphale, who’s been anxiously watching, waiting, guessing, finally wakes. “I – Oh.” The car. Too early, too fast, his heart thrumming in his throat.  
“I’m sorry about that.”

Crowley’s fluttering hands stop in their tracks. “What?”

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale repeats. “It was very kind of you to offer me a ride.” 

The neon lights, tracing Crowley’s profile in the darkness of the car. The black turtleneck showing off the length of his throat, so very inviting. The jeans, so nice, so groovy. Aziraphale had been too hot, dizzy. Utterly charmed.

Like back when he’d bumped into Crowley in Romania in 1470. Long curly hair, fur trimmed coat, leather gloves. He’d looked like a half dream in the dark corridors, his words white whispers, the flickering candles making his hair shimmer like dancing flames, tracing his profile.

Aziraphale had imagined the tickle of fur against his palms for years. The soft lines of his vest, curls wrapped around his fingers. The taste of leather. White sighs in the cold, a warm body.

“I – yes. It was very kind and I was rude and I’m sorry. I was a little tired. Maybe a little overexcited, I suppose.” He looks down at his crumpled paperback. The ducks have given up their hopes of a consistent rain of treats and have scattered. “What I mean to say is –“ 

When Aziraphale looks up to meet Crowley’s eye, he sees the tense line of his shoulders, his back. His forearms still on the railing, hands in knots. “Maybe I shouldn’t have said no.”

Maybe he should’ve said yes. Yes to the ride, yes to Crowley in his apartment, on his sofa, yes to a hand on his thigh, yes to a taste of apple on Crowley’s tongue. Yes to a hand in Crowley’s sleek hair, yes to his turtleneck, to his tight black jeans. 

Like maybe he should’ve said yes to the sleek lines of a form-fitting suit, sharp shoulders, a trim waist, a dark silhouette in midst of church ruins, a kiss that tastes like dust. Yes to a daringly short skirt, glittering in the cigarette smooth air vibrating with jazz, to a bare thigh against his. Yes to sideburns, yes to long curls, yes to fur, to velvet, to linen, to black feathers, to scales.

He starts at his hands, at thee paper bag. “I – Well, I’m aware I’m not up to speed, so to say. But I’m trying. Virginia Woolf, you see?”

When he looks up again, Crowley sniffs a little. “Well, I – yeah. I guess. Virginia Woolf, yeah.” His voice sounds distant, like his body is here while his mind is far away.

Aziraphale understands, relates. He feels like he’s just travelled an awfully long distance, a whirlwind of fabric and time and Crowley.

“Would you like some grapes?”

Crowley finally straightens. In the warm light his red hair, the purple silk, the maroon trousers glow. Washed in honey. Pollen glitters around him and the softest breeze curls though his hair like a gentle touch of loving fingers,

“Yes, sure.” The paper rustles, Aziraphale’s gaze lost somewhere along the faint outline of Crowley’s chest. His ribs, his sternum, his –  
Washed in silk. 

“Are you –“

“Heels.” Crowley lifts one foot to show off the chunky platform boots. A green marble disappears between his lips.

“Oh.” Th perfect height, then, to press close, silk on his tongue, feel Crowley shiver against him, his hands in his hair, nipple hardening against Aziraphale’s teeth.

“What do you think, should I –“

“No, it’s nice. You look –“ Velvet, fur, linen, boots, sideburns, dresses, diamonds, leather. “You look good.”

The words sparkle, glitter between them. Aziraphale swallows. His heart is fluttering, he feels light, like wine on his tongue on a warm evening.

“Next time –“ Next time he might say that Crowley always looks good. That he’s so beautiful, so breathtaking that Aziraphale can’t stop thinking about him. That it’s not the clothes.

“Next time I might as well say yes.”

“To a ride?”

“To everything.”

Crowley hums. Aziraphale can tell that he’s glancing at him despite the glasses. “Actually – If you have somewhere to be – or nowhere to be – I could. Give you a lift right now? I mean, if you’re free.”

Aziraphale picks a grape out of the rustling bag. Its flavour explodes on his tongue, sweet and cool on this warm day. “Lead the way.”

“Alright, sure.” Crowley pauses. “There’s this new album the Bentley won’t stop playing, though. Just to warn you.”

“That’s fine, I don’t mind.” They wander into the vague direction they came from, close enough that their shoulders are almost brushing. Close enough that Aziraphale could reach out, easy as anything, and entwine his fingers with Crowley’s. He smiles as he offers the bag instead. Next time.

**Author's Note:**

> Firstly: Thank you a TON for reading.  
I had a lot of fun writing this, even though it took a number of turns. Originally, the plot was simply "Aziraphale is big horny full stop" but then feelings slipped in.
> 
> Have some fun facts  
\- I'm not a native sleeper and as mentioned proofread this at 2:45 am. I have reached a state of sleep-deprived euphoria. So I am. Sorry. For any mistakes. It'll be proofread again tomorrow. Also this piece was written back to back with thee Encrusted with Stars one and I honestly feel like the melancholy over missed opportunities and the hopeful and giddy glance into a joined future is something that translated into both fics... 
> 
> \- the romania meeting was inspired by my vague memories of that tumblr post about Vlad the Impaler's ambiguously gay little brother. I googled and his name was Radu cel Frumos, Radu the Beautiful, and there is a TON of anime fanart for him and his friend(?boyfriend?). I was. Uh. surprised. Anyhow. He's a very interesting figure, since he had ties to the ottomans - namely said friend (boyfriend?). 
> 
> \- the title was inspired because I researched 70s male fashion and stumbled upon an [ad](https://static.boredpanda.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2015/06/70s-men-fashion-121__700.jpg) for bell bottoms. Idk that pun stayed with me. So there.
> 
> \- on that note: I actually planned on having them meet in the 80s where Crowley was to wear a crop top BUT then I googled 80s fashion for further research and came to my senses, thankfully. So here we are, where things were still good and outfits were still tight.
> 
> \- never mind that though: Crowley could wear the most ill-fitting, disgusting suit and Aziraphale would bee in shambles over how sexy and alluring he looks.
> 
> \- I went to a garden in 2017 where I read exactly ONE info plate thingy and it taught me that patchouli was trendy in the 70s because one could hide the scent of weed w it. Yeh.
> 
> \- yes, the album is queen. yes, it's the first time Aziraphale hears bohemian rhapsody and it's quite the experience - the scent of leather, the heat, Crowley and his sexy outfit, random opera bits...
> 
> this was fun. I was actually really enjoying all these little glimpses of Aziraphale being big horny, so idk. If you'd like a more detailed, more horny version, hmu. Maybe the daydreams he had? I feel like he went "Oh, wow, I want to make Crowley moan my name. Must be the excellent outfit." His mind, honestly.
> 
> How did you like it? Leave me a heart, a comment, or come say hi on [tumblr!](https://typinggently.tumblr.com/) Trust me, it would make my day :') 
> 
> (also..I've as of yet not made moodboards for the past two prompts..so...stay TUNED..)  
see u tomorrow maybe? xo


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